


Through the Storm

by Nym



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  Belle makes it back to Rumpelstiltskin after her adventure with Mulan.</p><p>
  <em>She's dreamed of that kiss, in the long and lonely weeks since then; that slow, uncertain touch of their lips where he tasted of woodsmoke and neglected hopes. She wishes that it had never ended, his bitter curse melting away with the patient warmth of her love.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingstarfellfrommyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fallingstarfellfrommyheart).



> fallingstarfellfrommyheart said: Ummmm, can I prompt Belle actually making it back to Rumple (after the Mulan adventure), and they have a happy reunion? And he really digs her warrior outfit. hehe :) I need something to heal my broken Rumbelle heart. Please and thank yous.
> 
> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your _own_ words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**

Belle reaches the Dark Castle during a battering gale, soaked to the skin by rain that feels like hail and chilled by winds that cut like ice.

Most of her journey back has been through dull, nondescript weather. It is only this place that shakes to the sound of thunder. Belle shouldn't be surprised that a sorcerer's temper can summon the storm clouds; he probably isn't even trying. Reaching the gate, Belle grips the iron with gloved hands to keep from being blown aside, and squints through the pelting rain to get her first look at the castle beyond. All the windows are dark, just as when she came here for the first time.

She has to lean into the wind to make her way from the gate to the castle's main doors, and is all but deafened by the howl of the wind around the walls. The doors are firmly locked. Supposing he doesn't let her in? Belle hasn't thought of that, until her hand hesitates an inch away from knocking. Rumpelstiltskin was very _definite_ when he commanded her to go. Belle forgave him long ago for the manner of their parting, because she knows that love is frightening, but he might not let her in.

Oh well - she has to try. It's the brave thing to do and, besides, she's shivering so hard that she can hear her teeth rattle.

Belle knocks hard upon the door, then wraps her arms about herself and hunches against the weather while she waits. It would be too feeble, too melodramatic to let herself shiver to death on his doorstep if he doesn't open the door. She'll have to head back down the pass to the town and look for shelter there. No thank you! She makes a fist and thumps the side of it against the wood, rattling the door on its hinges.

One of the first things she learned when she came here with Rumpelstiltskin - one of the very first - was that he _knows_ when someone else has strayed into his territory. He's like a spider, that way. He gets a tingle when his web is disturbed. So he knows that Belle is here, and probably that it _is_ Belle and not some unwary traveller seeking succour in entirely the wrong place.

Stamping her feet, blowing soggy rat-tails of hair out of her eyes, Belle glares at the doors. He won't let her freeze out here, will he? Is he up in his laboratory, cursing her name and hoping that she'll go away? Not hoping _too_ hard, of course, in case she does. Stupid man! As if she's forgotten how he kissed her, how he moaned with longing when their lips touched!

It starts to snow, except that it's snow that can't make up its mind about perhaps becoming hailstones. Belle clenches her jaw as the stuff patters against her back, the wind changing to direct it at her.

"Rumpelstiltskin!" she shouts, over the howl of the gale, and delivers three heartfelt kicks to the door with her steel-toed boot. _True. Love's. Kiss!_ "You let me in this instant!"

The right-hand door creaks open. Perhaps it's only the cold making her crazy, but Belle feels there's something sheepish about the way the door moves aside to let her pass.

One candelabrum sheds a meagre light in the entrance hall of tiled marble. Belle jumps at the shadow cast by a very large brown bear, rearing up on hind legs in the corner near the stairs. That wasn't there before! But it's only the shadows that move; the bear himself is stuffed or... going closer, refusing to be frightened of a thing that clearly cannot move, Belle feels that it is watching her. A real bear, alive and made helpless by horrible magic?

No, she decides, grinning nervously in her relief when she touches the thing's chest. Stuffed, with glass for eyes, but so expertly done that anyone might wonder. For a moment. In a bad light.

Rumpelstiltskin likes to make the wrong impression on people.

Belle looks around, uncertainly, while she pulls off her gauntlets and the neck scarf that's no longer doing anything but direct the water to flow down between her breasts. She leaves the things in a sad heap near the door. She's thought about this homecoming so often, even before she decided that she must make it happen. Rumpelstiltskin was always here to greet her, and generally glad to see her, in those longing daydreams. She tries his favourite room, first - the ridiculously huge ballroom that he's pleased to call his 'parlour', where he dines and spins and warms his feet beside the fire of an evening. In darkness, neglected, the room is a chaos of overturned furniture and, strewn across what little Belle can see of the polished floorboards and the plush carpet, smashed crockery. He hasn't touched a thing since she left, and her heart sinks at the memory of his accusing rage.

 _I've done nothing wrong,_ Belle has to remind herself. _Not on purpose. He knows that. He knows the kiss was real._

She's dreamed of that kiss, in the long and lonely weeks since then; that slow, uncertain touch of their lips where he tasted of woodsmoke and neglected hopes. She wishes that it had never ended, his bitter curse melting away with the patient warmth of her love. Instead, Rumpelstiltskin guarded it with a jealous rage and chose dark magic when he could have chosen _her_. Or simply asked her not to kiss him!

Turning her back on the devastated and darkened room, on the memory of his fury and his accusations, Belle tries the other doors. She leaves a trail of muddy boot prints and big wet drips behind her on the marble as she goes, and finds nothing but more dark and disused rooms, each filled with the less-favoured of Rumpelstiltskin's curios and trophies.

Suppose he's not well? Belle has to admit, as she mounts the bottom steps and begins the long trudge upwards to the other rooms she's known him to frequent, that it's more likely to be _her_ on her deathbed, if she doesn't soon get out of these wet clothes. Everything is dark, and as well as she knows the way Belle is forced to return to the hall and take a candle from the one lit candelabrum. She's tempted to light the other candles, lanterns and torches with it as she goes, to bring back the light that used to live here, but something stops her. This isn't her home, not now. The candles aren't hers to light.

But supposing Rumpelstiltskin _isn't_ well? Who has brought him his meals, these past weeks, and cajoled him out of his snits and sulks? There's a damp chill to the castle that Belle doesn't think she brought in with her, although she cannot stop shivering or dripping.

The castle is a lavishly decorated place, for the most part, but little of it sees life from day to day. Rumpelstiltskin has his favourite places, as anyone does, and when he isn't occupied in his lofty laboratory, he's usually to be found spinning. Sometimes he sleeps in his chamber, or settles with a book in some convenient chair. He enjoys a fireside, the same as any man. Belle tries his chambers, first, entering after a timid knock. There's a fire in there, at least, and the bed looks slept in. A pair of boots lies in a jumble between the door and the big bed. Resisting the urge to tidy them away, and resisting even harder the urge to approach the warming fire, Belle closes the door and sets off upwards again.

She passes her own room with a pang of longing and regret. Rumpelstiltskin made her quite comfortable, after seeing to it that she understood that the dungeon would be her only destination should she try to break their deal and run away. She wants to go and change her clothes, to be warm and dry before she faces him, but this is _not_ her home. She doesn't think she could face him without crying if she saw her old chamber in ruins, her clothing shredded in another display of Rumpelstiltskin's disgust.

He let her go, but she came back to him, and now she's come back to him again. Not with a trick, this time; not with a plan, an unwanted kiss. The worst thing was that the woman on the road hadn't lied. Rumpelstiltskin is under a curse. True love's kiss could break it. The dark queen hadn't even lied, yet she had used Belle to strike at what Rumpelstiltskin held most precious. It had almost worked. Belle feels a different, warmer kind of shiver, recalling how his inhuman eyes had turned a soft brown for those scant moments; his flesh beneath the curse a pale tone, not unlike her own. She had glimpsed a gentle face to go with the gentle smile that Rumpelstiltskin sometimes wore when he thought Belle wasn't looking at him.

A window has blown in, on the third floor, leaving the shutters banging and broken glass upon the floor. The renewed chill makes Belle wince, as she pushes the shutters closed and latches them, banishing the worst of the weather.

It's no warmer making the climb to the windowed turret where Rumpelstiltskin keeps his potions and books. Having eliminated all of his favourite haunts, it is Belle's only remaining option short of searching the entire castle room by room. It's a very big castle that has many, many rooms. She's explored most of them, in those parts of the castle where he didn't forbid her to go, and remembers thinking how wonderful a game of hide-and-seek would be in this place. By the light of one candle the idea is less appealing.

Rumpelstiltskin is standing stiffly by the window, his back straight and his hands perfectly still at his sides. He's dressed much as when Belle first met him, all sharp edges and shadows. Most of him is in shadow. Here, too, only one candelabrum challenges the darkness, lending strange shadow-shapes to the already strange collection of equipment that clutters Rumpelstiltskin's work tables. Belle was never afraid here, more excited and interested in the tools of a wizard's trade, but she's frightened now as she stands at the head of the winding stairs and faces him at last. Rumpelstiltskin.

The man who told her to go, that he didn't want her any more. That power meant more to him than she does. Belle _knows_ that it's not true - she knew it then and she knows it now - but she can't stop Rumpelstiltskin from saying it again, or behaving as if it were the truth. She can't stop him sending her to the other side of the world with a snap of his fingers, for that matter.

Her borrowed candle spills wax down her chilled fingers, making her catch her breath.

"I came back," she begins, as sure as she is of anything that _he_ won't begin. Rumpelstiltskin stands, unmoving. She feels watched, but she cannot see enough of his face to be sure that he's even looking at her. "I thought a lot, and I went on an adventure. Met another monster who wasn't one really. So I came back." It sounds feeble, now that she comes to say it out loud, but she's here. She has to try. "I missed you," she adds, hoping to earn some sort of a response from the shadows. "Lots."

"Why?" His voice is low and gruff. Belle relaxes slightly, since he didn't begin by shouting at her. As soon as she does so she begins to shiver again, and her teeth choose a terrible moment to begin to chatter in earnest.

"I belong with the person I love," she manages, her jaw protesting the effort. "I'm freezing," she adds, in case he can't tell from the shivers and the chattering teeth, and quite possibly from the way she's turning blue.

"You... walked." Rumpelstiltskin takes a step in her direction. Then another. His hands flex nervously at his sides. Another step and his boot knocks against something - a bottle, empty. It rolls away and circles itself to a clumsy stop. Looking down, Belle can see quite a lot of empty bottles on the floor, each one reflecting a tiny light from her candle. "You're cold."

"Yes." Belle wishes that the moment could be more profound, but she _is_ frozen to the bone. "If you're going to throw me out again, could you send me as far as the tavern in the town, please?" She meant to joke about it, but she can hardly get the words out. Standing still, her body is turning to a block of ice.

"...Again?" He sounds as if he doesn't understand a word she's saying.

Narrowing her eyes, Belle wonders how much Rumpelstiltskin has had to drink. He's often taciturn, stubborn or plain difficult, but these dull monosyllables aren't like him at all. He plays with words, gives them an edge that glints like a dagger. He's just _staring_ at her.

Belle looks down. Dry, her clothing left most things to the imagination. Soaked through, the warm and practical outfit clings to her curves, sinfully tight in some places and rather too transparent in others. She hitches up her jerkin, awkwardly.

"Please say something," she begs. There's so much that Belle wants to say, but not like this. Not in the dark, when she cannot see his eyes, his face, or the hesitant little smiles that sometimes grace his self-deprecation.

Rumpelstiltskin takes another uncertain step, then another, and then drops to his knees at her feet and wraps his arms about her, moaning as he buries his face in the sodden folds of her jerkin.

 _Oh._ Tears making her eyes itch, Belle touches his hair, hardly believing. She blows out the candle, drops it without a thought - buries the fingers of both hands in his hair, which is just as soft as she imagined it would be. He's warm. Self-preservation and the need for warmth combine handily with what seems to be appropriate to the moment, and she sinks to her own knees and embraces him tightly, every one of the sharp leathern scales stinging where it presses into her chilled body. She doesn't care. She doesn't _care_ , because she's here now and Rumpelstiltskin holds her as if he means never to let her go again. He breathes harshly against her cheek, clutching her as if he fears that she'll vanish if he doesn't keep reminding himself that she's solid.

"I missed you," Belle says again, but it only manages to be a shaken whisper. She's known that she missed him - his smiles, his jokes, his strange and ridiculous ways - but until now it's been the leaving that stabs her in the heart and hurts. The bitter words, the rejection and the fact that he chose his power over her. All that has left her in tears, countless times, when the hurt welled up in her chest and couldn't be contained. In her daydreams, this reunion never threatened to tear her heart in two as well, but it hurts. His despair, her relief. It _hurts_.

"I missed you," Rumpelstiltskin stammers. "You're so cold."

"There's a bit of a storm outside," Belle laughs, a wet and tear-filled laugh that she buries against his curving collar of reptile skin. She asked him, once, what creature it was cured from, and he told her, deadpan, that it was dragon. She laughs again, her arms going feeble when she tries to hold on harder. "I can stay?"

"Yes, yes," Rumpelstiltskin groans. "Oh, Belle. Forgive me. Please, forgive me." For a few seconds, he's almost crushing her. Then Belle feels the dizzying whirl of magic about her, and when she blinks the dizziness away they're kneeling beside the great hearth in Rumpelstiltskin's room, instead. Where there was a modest fire, before, there's an enormous one now, piled high with logs and leaping with bright yellow-orange flames. Rumpelstiltskin lets her go and sits back on his heels, staring at her. At everything but her face.

Belle can see him at last, her Rumpelstiltskin. His face is pinched, somehow, and what little can be seen of the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. She remembers the bottles, all those _empty_ bottles. Well. It's not as if she didn't have a drink or two, herself. It eased the pain for a little while.

"I... I'll get you a blanket," he says, and stumbles to his feet and across the room. Belle watches him drag the counterpane from his bed and bring it to her, kneeling again and, so timidly, reaching around her to wrap her in its goosedown warmth. She watches his face, while he avoids looking at hers; watches the strained twitch of his cheek, the nervous lick of his lips. He could have dried her out with magic, instead of all this. He's done it before, when the laundry or some domestic mishap left her wet through and dripping. He could have changed her clothing with a wave of his hand; he's done that before, too, sometimes for no better reason than to catch her attention. He could have taken her to her own room, or to the kitchens where it's never cold even in the dead of winter, but he's brought her here to his own place. Belle gives him a grateful smile as her teeth stop chattering and the fire and the goosedown do their work.

Rumpelstiltskin furnishes his chambers in shades of red and gold. Everything metal is gilt; everything fabric is silk, brocade or fur. Belle laughed about that, when she first saw it - the sheer ostentation of it in a room that, she knew even then, had never been seen by anyone but Rumpelstiltskin himself. There's a more honest opulence to the rest of the castle. Here, Rumpelstiltskin mocks even himself with his show of wealth and rich taste. He leaves his boots and stockings lying about on the pale rug when he goes to bed. He piles his discarded clothing in peculiar places. He scorns the luxury that he hoards for himself.

"I should probably change," Belle says, once she's warm enough that she can bear to think of moving. "If you still have my things?" Her voice cracks, startling her and earning a stricken look from Rumpelstiltskin, who reaches for her face and doesn't quite bring himself to brush away the tangles of her hair. His hand trembles.

"Of course I do," he whispers, meeting her gaze at last. Belle moves her head to meet the wavering hand, and Rumpelstiltskin spreads his fingers against her cheek, her ear, nodding with relief at this permission to touch her. His shame is palpable, all but crushing him, but Belle can see the old longing as well, and the ache of loneliness that first drew her to study him all those months ago. She has _missed_ him, and more than anything in the world Belle wants to kiss Rumpelstiltskin now.

There was always kissing, when she imagined this reunion; sweet, soft kisses that grew more eager as they found the certainty that their first kiss had lacked. Suppose he doesn't want to kiss her at all - doesn't dare? Belle loves Rumpelstiltskin - with all her heart, she does - but she wasn't wrong when she named him coward.

"Be with me," she says, too shaken to think of what's proper. A few weeks on the road has forced her to guard her virtue in ways she'd rather not have had to - with sharp words, a dagger at her belt and a handy trick with her knee if all else failed. It's given her cause to wonder how much Rumpelstiltskin wanted her, if those men wanted her, and to think again about some of the looks he used to give her when he thought she was preoccupied. Belle feels a thousand years older than she was then. She can't see what's improper about offering herself to her true love in any case. It seems a dreadful shame to waste him.

Rumpelstiltskin blinks at her, foolishly. For a horrible moment, Belle thinks he hasn't understood her; that he'll ask her to clarify. Then he moves his hand slightly, palm against her cheek, and strokes her lips with the rough pad of his thumb. He watches as he does so; watches his thumb move, tracing the shape of Belle's mouth. He swallows, moistening his own lips with the flash of a pink tongue. "You don't have to kiss me," Belle blurts, desperately. "If you don't want to."

"Oh..." Leaning closer, as he did that first time they kissed, Rumpelstiltskin nudges some of the unruly rat-tails away from Belle's temple. "I want to," he promises, his voice light, soft and unsteady. "I always wanted to. Forgive me, Belle. Please." He breaks on the last word and comes into her arms, making them a clumsy bundle of quilt, limbs and unsuitable clothing. He doesn't kiss her, but he does embrace her beneath the warming coverlet, and press his cheek to her temple while they breathe together, each as lost as the other. "I didn't dare hope you'd come back to me. I didn't." He burrows beneath her heavy mass of wet hair, hand curling at the back of her neck, warmer than anything. Belle closes her eyes, with that much of his bare skin against hers, and tries to keep her grip on the back of his unyielding leather coat.

She wants to kiss him. So badly. Rumpelstiltskin brushes his lips against her temple, barely touching, and hesitates, holding his breath. Belle wants to ask why he's so afraid - why he'd choose a curse and power over love, if love he wants, but she wants to kiss him so much that she can't manage anything else. She just quivers when he releases the held breath, shaking, and gives her left temple another kiss. A proper one this time, pressure and dry lips. It fills her with a pleasant, spreading tingle - as if her blood carries the kiss away from the spot and takes it everywhere else. Belle bites her lip, not trusting herself to be silent otherwise.

Rumpelstiltskin kisses her cheek, this kiss lingering a little and becoming a slow brush with his lower lip. He hesitates again, and Belle can't tell whether he shakes with fear, with the effort of keeping the peck on the cheek from shattering his curse, or with the same desire that has her shaking all over now - to kiss him and to kiss him until she cannot remember her own name. It's all that Belle can do not to turn her head, to press her lips to his and chance everything on a kiss. Again.

"Belle." Rumpelstiltskin draws back, just far enough that she can see him. "It's not my power," he says, with a new urgency. He grips her shoulders and hitches her gently towards him, causing the feather coverlet to fall in a heap behind her. "Not power that means more to me than you. Know that. Please?"

Belle nods, confused. She knows that. She's always known.

He kisses her. It's a hasty lunge, as if he's trying to get it over with before the fates can spot him. It isn't like their fist kiss. Rumpelstiltskin claims her mouth harshly, dragging a kiss from her; Belle's lips move on their own, meeting him, parting for him, and then it's his tongue tangling with hers. It's wonderful, all clumsy and wet and edged with nervous laughter - with a certain glee when they realise, they _both_ realise, that Rumpelstiltskin has mastered the art of kissing his true love without succumbing to its unwanted blessing. "Oh, Belle," he mumbles, in the briefest pause for air. He draws her astride his knees, bringing her face to face with him, and is uncomplaining when she pushes at his coat and mantle; he shrugs them off as though she has commanded him, and she can embrace him properly at last. Soggy but no longer chilled, Belle seeks another kiss. Where Rumpelstiltskin tries to be gentle, she answers with a taste of the fire inside; she wants him in no doubt about her intentions, or about how much she wants to know his body. His. She's never burned for anyone else. Not for tall (oh so tall - she practically needed to stand on a chair just to talk to him, not that he ever listened!) handsome Gaston or for smiling Prince James who made _all_ the maidens swoon; not for anyone but Rumpelstiltskin, green-grey and scaled with mossy teeth and charcoal fingernails that he gnaws on when he's lost in thought.

When Belle's fingers have crept between her thighs in the darkness seeking her secret joy, it's been Rumpelstiltskin in her thoughts; Rumpelstiltskin kissing her; Rumpelstiltskin's fingers that she longed for in place of her own.

That gives her pause, not to mention a rush of heat down below, and she falters in kissing him. Rumpelstiltskin stops at once, hands that have been wandering her back falling still, and watches her as if he hardly dares. Belle doesn't dare tell him that it was the thought of his hand between her legs that made her falter, so she smiles instead and enjoys the look of sheepish relief that spreads across Rumpelstiltskin's face.

"I've, um, never done this before," Belle confides, and then feels a complete fool. He's hardly going to think otherwise, is he, when she can't keep her teeth from obstructing their kisses? Reddening, she reaches up for the scrap of velvet ribbon that's just about holding the last of her thick ponytail at her left shoulder. She suddenly, urgently, needs something to do besides staring into Rumpelstiltskin's eyes, in case he laughs at her.

Very gently, Rumpelstiltskin brushes her hands away. He picks at the knot, delicate as anything, and Belle learns that she doesn't need to be kissing him to feel the want grow in the pit of her belly. Just watching his face as he applies himself to unfastening a soggy piece of ribbon is enough to fill her up with longing. He's almost smiling, and his hands almost don't shake.

"There," he says, appreciatively, dropping the sodden velvet and using both hands to spread out her hair. Belle looks down, between them, then takes hold of his right hand and guides it to the next fastening down from her hair; the ties of her belt, behind her. Rumpelstiltskin makes a faint sound in his throat when he reaches around her with both hands to unfasten it. The weight of her dagger in its sheath drags the belt to the floor beside her, neither one of them attempting to catch it because they seem to be kissing again, and this time nobody's teeth get in the way.

Belle melts. That's what it feels like, as her body makes every effort to conform to the shape of Rumpelstiltskin's while they kiss and kiss. She finds herself inching higher and higher up the slight slope of his thighs, both because she cannot help herself and because, just occasionally, Rumpelstiltskin gives a little pull at her hips by way of encouragement. Belle knows where the bits go, as her old nurse would put it; she understands that his desire is there, at the distinct bulge in his leather breeches that she always tried _very_ hard not to notice when she happened to see him in profile. She looks, now, because if she's going to _do_ then she ought to at least _look_ , and has to abruptly shift her understanding of a man _inflamed_ with passion. The bulge in Rumpelstiltskin's breeches looks enormous.

Again, she waits for his laugh - his nervy, nasty little giggle. It doesn't come. Rumpelstiltskin lifts her chin, gently, and there's nothing but hope and tender longing in his expression.

She shows his hand to another knot, this one tucked away between her bosoms to hide the tattered cord that ties the laces of her jerkin. She can't stop her breath from quickening, then, but neither can Rumpelstiltskin. Belle puts her hands on his shoulders, toying with the ends of his hair while he finds the ends of the cord and sets to work, this time with shaking hands. The brush of his fingers against the inside curve of her breasts adds a sharper note to the warm pulse of Belle's desire; just the thought of being touched there is exciting.

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin unlaces her, his full attention on the task, and upon what he reveals as he goes. Belle realises that, wet, her warm and practical shirt conceals nothing. She reddens again, but smiles as well, because she likes the way Rumpelstiltskin stares at her; at the naughty dark peaks of her nipples, so obvious where the pale cloth clings to her skin. Belle tries to notice everything, to remember everything; how it feels to be gazed upon for the first time. It's like trying to grasp water, though, and she settles for enjoying the experience instead; for feeling beautiful because Rumpelstiltskin looks at her with such awe, as if she's the only woman in the world he's ever noticed. She resists the urge to hunch her shoulders and to hide herself when they slip the jerkin off her. He lays it aside with care, on the hearthstone, and gathers her to his body for another kiss. This one is long and deep, with Rumpelstiltskin tugging to untuck her shirt from her leggings. Belle can't concentrate on one sensation or the other - on the kiss or on the possibility of, at any moment, Rumpelstiltskin's bare hands touching her bare back. Each excites her too much, leaves her half helpless with confused urges, but he seems more sure of himself than before. Perhaps he's only more certain of her?

He's less certain when Belle reaches for his laces. His jerkin is sleeveless, more of the scaled leather that probably isn't dragonhide at all, and beneath that he wears only a shirt of darkest red. She can hug him properly, once the leather is gone; feel the heat of his body properly while they kiss. Yes. If only her hands wouldn't shake so badly! As she pushes the leather back from Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders, Belle looks at his face again. His eyes are full of worry, though the tenderness and the wanting remain. She smiles, nervously, and touches his cheek.

"If I'm not shy, why should you be?" she asks. In truth, she is shy. For all that she wants to be admired, desired, she feels too exposed with the thin fabric clinging to her skin. She's glad that the heat of the fire is drying her out, making the cloth opaque again. But she isn't _afraid_ on account of her shyness. She isn't frightened that Rumpelstiltskin will see her rather small bosom and decide that perhaps he doesn't want her after all. Rumpelstiltskin is frightened that she's going to undress him, see him, and reject him. She aches for him in a different way entirely, then. "If these leggings shrink when they dry on me, the only way to get them off again will be magic," she says, with a determined brightness because she knows that it raises Rumpelstiltskin's spirits. He likes it when she bemuses and befuddles him, teases and cajoles him. At least, Belle _thinks_ that he does.

Rising up on her knees, she begins to fumble with the ties at her left hip. They're only tied in a simple bow, but shaking hands struggle even with that. Rumpelstiltskin caresses the backs of her thighs, sending hot and cold shivers through Belle that have absolutely nothing to do with the fireplace or the bitter weather.

"How could you be shy?" he asks, leaning in and - oh, great gods - nudging at her left breast with his nose, his cheek. "You're perfect." He's never paid her a compliment before, and it's almost swallowed up in the surge of feeling when he gives her stiff nipple the lightest of kisses through her shirt. Belle moans, reaching for his shoulders to stop herself swaying. "Perfect," Rumpelstiltskin says again, his voice light and full of reverence. He plucks loose the bows at her hips, at the same time, front then back, and cups her bare buttocks as she sinks back down into his lap, shaking. With the twin drop-flaps that protected her modesty hanging open, she's suddenly terrified, even though the hem of her shirt still covers her.

 _Do the brave thing,_ she reminds herself, and if she's learned anything these past weeks it's that it doesn't matter a damn whether or not bravery actually follows. It's the doing that matters.

"Don't stop," Belle whispers, catching at the back of Rumpelstiltskin's neck and pulling him to her. "Don't you dare stop for some stupid reason like thinking you're too ugly or because we're not married yet. Don't you dare stop unless you don't want me." And she kisses him, inexpertly mashing her lips with Rumpelstiltskin's until his surprise gives way to his desire, and he kisses her back. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't stop, even when Belle starts to unbutton his shirt, hands clumsy and cramped between their chests because she won't stop kissing him for anything.

Belle's curiosity about how Rumpelstiltskin's flesh would feel to her hands is satisfied the moment she pushes them inside his loosened shirt. He's the same there as when she's touched his hand; warm, dry, his skin alternating between a smoothness that nears her own and the curious texture of not-quite scales, raised and ridged. Rumpelstiltskin twitches, his mouth going still on hers, and Belle giggles, realising that she was so timid in her touching as to _tickle_ him beneath the ribs. "I'm sorry."

He responds with a weak, wordless noise. Belle steals the opportunity to slip the shirt from his shoulders, but she doesn't try to peek at him. Not yet. She wants to see all of him, to know everything, but now it's touching. Kissing. Rumpelstiltskin recovers himself and applies his mouth to the soft place beneath Belle's jaw, earning a few wordless noises from her in return. Kisses to her lips were wonderful. Kisses to her bare skin are... are... making her whimper aloud, and she can't stop herself, or think until Rumpelstiltskin stops again because his kisses have run into the collar of her shirt.

He lifts his head, then, and looks at her askance, and kindly too. He hasn't forgotten that she is untried, even as she's voiced demands and pulled at his clothing like a wanton thing.

Belle nods, trying to look far less nervous than she feels. Lips twitching, not quite smiling, Rumpelstiltskin unbuttons her shirt without parting the folds of fabric to expose her skin. She has nothing beneath it; her jerkin served well enough as bodice and corset if she cinched it tightly enough. There's just a shirt and then her bare skin beneath it; breasts that she has always suspected are rather smaller than a man likes to admire and which seem to itch for want of Rumpelstiltskin's touch, now.

To her shock - to her eternal and wicked wonder - Rumpelstiltskin kisses them instead. He lifts her, hands beneath her bare buttocks, and applies his mouth to her right nipple just as she finds her balance upon her knees. Belle cries out, a broken laugh almost, and drags her shirt open before he can do it again. His next kiss brings gentle lips to firm nipple, a gust of hot breath against her bare breast, and Rumpelstiltskin _plucks_ her as he kisses. She catches him behind the neck to keep herself steady, and to keep him from having any doubt that her involuntary cries are of pure enjoyment at this unexpected thing.

Rumpelstiltskin doesn't linger long there, although she thinks that he might like to, from the way his hands tighten against her backside while he kisses her breast. He lifts his head to look into her eyes again and Belle sees a mirror of her own wonder in his eyes, and something of the same urgency that's tightening her about the middle as well. She wants the relief of touch where she's already wet with wanting; the strong fingers that have featured in her private musings since before she even knew that she could give this man her heart. And not only his fingers; she wants all of him.

"Don't wait," she begs, taking Rumpelstiltskin's face between her hands. She traces the shape of his cheekbones with her thumbs, adoring him for his care with her. "Be with me?"

He nods. Swallows, convulsively. Licks his lips as Belle sinks back on her heels and reaches an uncertain hand towards his breeches. With firelight on his skin he looks much as any other man might, but he hunches forward under her scrutiny and gently brushes her hands away, untying the leather thongs himself. Belle makes herself busy with her boots, and then by skinning her own leggings down to her ankles in a series of contortions that are probably neither graceful nor alluring, but which do leave her naked save for the open shirt. She makes to lie back, then - to offer herself in the only way she knows upon the fallen bedspread, but Rumpelstiltskin catches her hand and draws her back towards him, to sit upon his knees again and kiss with him again. Anywhere that Belle tries to put her hands makes him shudder and clutch her closer, kiss her harder or more deeply. Before long she's nestled at the top of his thighs, past the tangle of crumpled leather and able to feel his manhood against her belly and her curls. That makes him shudder too, and makes the kisses go softer - a lazy kind of pleasure where there had been a frantic sort the moment before.

"Belle," he murmurs, burying his face where her neck and shoulder join. Belle closes her eyes, burying the fingers of her right hand in his hair in return. It's a soft moment before they kiss again, and before Rumpelstiltskin brushes the back of his knuckles down beneath her ribs towards her triangle of curls. Belle yelps into his mouth at the first sweet nudge of his fingers - his knuckle, she realises, dizzily - between her legs. She's slippery with wanting and opens her legs wider for him, allowing him to cup her awkwardly while they kiss and - gods, gods _yes_ \- to draw his fingertips so easily through her hidden folds, seeking the places that make her body sing. Belle thinks that she must have missed a few, herself, when she feels the clenching and shuddering start at barely a touch from him. It's so different from her own hand, he's afraid of hurting her, but the slip-slide of his two fingers alongside her swollen bud is enough. Rumpelstiltskin repays her yelp with a long groan as her body quakes for him, as she squirms against his hand in startled abandon.

"Please do it," she begs, trying to kiss him while she talks, while she pants for breath, while she wriggles in search of more of his hand. More of anything to fill the longing in her. "Please, please. I love you."

"I love you too," Rumpelstiltskin whispers, blinking away tears. He touches her cheek, shaking his head in disbelief. Overriding all his fear and all his lust, there's that disbelief that Belle could _want_ him. Not only love him with her heart, her mind, but _want_ him as well, so urgently that she must beg for more of his touch when he's already teased her to sweet climax.

This is the proving of them, Belle decides, being still for a moment to savour how carefully he touches her face. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't have her faith, not in anything and certainly not in love. She can prove it to him; cradle him, love him with every inch of herself, and she isn't afraid of that. Perhaps she ought to be, maybe that's the sensible thing to be, but she's not afraid. Only of the things that she doesn't know yet, and that Rumpelstiltskin might _stop._

Determined, Belle pulls at the bundled counterpane until it offers a relatively dry and flat surface, then takes Rumpelstiltskin by the hand and draws him down with her to lie there. His hands are upon her at once, pushing the shirt back from her shoulders, and then his gaze follows, appreciative and slow.

"I know what to do," she declares. "I read it in a book." Rumpelstiltskin smiles, almost laughs, and leans in to tell her with a kiss how much she enchants him. He presses himself close against her side, easing one hand beneath her head and returning the other to her hip, drawing circles with two fingertips as he slowly moves them towards the apex of her thighs.

"Perhaps I should have been more careful with the key to my library," he suggests, between kisses, and deflects her response by easing two fingers into her slippery folds again. Belle gasps, lips against his, and Rumpelstiltskin smiles. He's always appreciated her defiance, her curiosity. It occurs to Belle, before she loses herself to the wonders of being rubbed with a hand that belongs not to herself but to her true love, that he's enjoying her naivete as much as her brazenness. It's his to explore, just as he explores between her inner lips and finds her opening, teasing it with fingertip caresses until she's fighting sobs of desperation. Belle touches as much of him as she can reach - face, hair, arms, back, buttocks - and tries to convey with wriggling, straining enthusiasm that as much as she appreciates his tenderness, she desires him too much to wait upon needless niceties.

If the sounds she can't stop herself from making don't convey her need, Belle can't imagine what might. She tries to be patient, tells herself that Rumpelstiltskin is old and at least selectively wise, and knows the way of things far better than she does, but she knows what she wants. She's a maiden, not a... a child bride in need of gentling through her terrors! Terror would be a husband who cared for nothing but getting sons on her as efficiently as possible; terror would be a life empty of love having known it once before. Belle reaches between them, between her legs, and guides his fingers to her entrance. Two of his slip inside with two of hers, then the frustration breaks into throbbing bliss again and Rumpelstiltskin rubs her _inside_ with rather less timid care than before while she thrashes, helpless in the throes of it.

Before Belle can wonder if she's shocked him, Rumpelstiltskin rolls her beneath him and lies between her thighs, careful not to crush her. His eyes are closed, but he opens them when Belle reaches up to cup his face. Dizzy with her pleasure, overflowing with her love, she nods and lets her eyes plead for her. Rumpelstiltskin swallows a strangled noise and nods as well, leaning down to kiss her brow, her temple and then her lips, each touch of his lips a gift of tenderness and a promise of love.

Belle runs her hands all over his back while he settles himself, exploring how his skin changes. His shoulder blades are knobbly, the small of his back as soft as her own cheek, and he breathes faster when she strokes him there, just lightly. Rubbing at his backside makes him moan and tremble all over, and then lower himself to nudge at her wetness while his fingers open her and guide the way. Thrilled, Belle tries to tug him closer, to bury him inside her, but she's forgotten his strength; he doesn't let her rush the moment. A moment later, conscious of the size of him just a little way inside her, she's grateful that he thought of it. She bites her lip, gripping him so tightly about the upper arms that she must be leaving half-moon impressions with her ragged fingernails.

"Slowly, slowly," Rumpelstiltskin murmurs, the hand that's been between them coming up to touch her face, now. He takes his weight upon his left arm with effortless ease; he trembles with feeling, not with the strain of bracing himself above her like that. Belle nods, her body beginning to understand that surprise isn't pain and that fullness isn't breaking; she remembers the why, the wanting, and her nervousness ebbs away with each exhalation and each soft sweep of his fingertips against her brow. Rumpelstiltskin lowers himself until his belly is against hers, his warmth covering her everywhere, and gives her the sweetest of kisses as he sinks all the way inside her. It's so easy, after that moment of being overcome; it's so wonderful to feel him there, filling her up as though he belongs in her.

Of course he does. They belong. Burying the fingers of her left hand in Rumpelstiltskin's hair, Belle rubs his back with the right; encourages him with her kisses just as she did before. When he moves, thrusts, Belle hears herself make a startling sound - a low, long moan of appreciation. He isn't silent, himself; there's a hitch in his breathing, a tiny 'ah' on every exhale, until the kisses stop and Belle opens her eyes to see him lost in her, eyes tight shut, expression almost pained, as she thinks her own must be in those moments before her pleasure breaks. _All of me,_ Belle thinks, urging him with both hands. _All of me is yours._ She hasn't the breath to say it aloud, but in that moment, as Rumpelstiltskin falters and becomes less gentle, moving clumsily and faster, Belle's certain that he knows it.

Rumpelstiltskin gasps her name, surging up and into her one final time before he rests in her waiting arms and pants for breath against the side of her neck, clinging to her as if she's all that matters in the whole world.

There's something conspiratorial about lying with her lover as their bodies cool and their pulses settle. They lie side by side, touching aimlessly inside the cocoon they've made of the coverlet, and if Rumpelstiltskin has used a hint of magic to make it a warm and dry place to hide together, Belle doesn't mind. It's the being together that seems important, tonight. She touches his face, liking how his stony expressions and sneers have all melted away for her. It's more a glimpse of the truth beneath his curse, Belle thinks, than when she saw a moment of pink flesh and dark brown eyes after their first kiss. Rumpelstiltskin touches her too. Hair. Shoulders. Every once in a while he ventures uncertainly towards her breasts and then stops his hand short, growing sheepish, and Belle decides that when she's had a little rest, she'll make sure that he knows how much she'd like it if he touched her everywhere.

"The storm's blown over," she observes, as cold, clear moonlight adds itself to the light of half a dozen gilt candelabra. Rumpelstiltskin nods, coaxing her to lay her head upon his shoulder. Belle is glad to oblige him, to reach across his chest and nestle close. He clasps her there with a protective arm. "Strange," she says, fingering his chest. "The sky was clear the whole way here. The storm only hit as I climbed the pass. It was only here, over the castle."

"Really?" Rumpelstiltskin has the decency to squirm a bit. Belle smiles to herself and closes her eyes, ready to sleep a while, but Rumpelstiltskin continues to fidget. She doesn't mind; she enjoys the reminder of his presence as her mind begins to drift towards happy dreaming.

"...Yet?" he ventures, after a long time. Belle blinks the sleep away with difficulty.

"Sorry?"

"You said 'because we're not married _yet_ '," Rumpelstiltskin says, trying to sound airy about it and punctuating it with a halfhearted flourish of his hand. Belle nods. She did say that, in her urgency to be understood. It does sound rather presumptuous, now. She blushes and squeezes her eyes shut. "Is that what you want, Belle?" She isn't prepared for the seductive softness of Rumpelstiltskin's tone, or for the quiet sincerity of the question. He sounds hopeful.

"I have what I want," Belle smiles, stretching contentedly beside him before she curls herself in close again. If he isn't going to ask her properly then she isn't going to answer him properly. Not yet. "For tonight."

**Author's Note:**

> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your _own_ words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**


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